


you can share with me

by luftballons99



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Roommates/Housemates, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Compliant, Childhood Friends, Domestic Fluff, Explicit Language, Friends to Lovers, Future Fic, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, Lack of Communication, M/M, Protectiveness, Romance, Self-Destructive Behavior, Self-Esteem Issues, Underage Drinking, but it's mild don't worry, kuroo has a laminating machine in the trunk of his car and sells fake IDs. this is canon now.
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-20
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-03-07 09:43:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,088
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13432074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luftballons99/pseuds/luftballons99
Summary: The soft-spoken introvert on the playground that all the moms liked but all the kids didn’t and the gap-toothed boy that offered him a dinosaur band aid after he fell in the wood chips. The Grand King of Volleyball and his loyal, royal ace. Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime. Shittykawa and Iwa-chan. They've always been a team, on and off the court.And yet there are some things about living together with Oikawa that Hajime really hadn’t considered before moving in with him.





	you can share with me

**Author's Note:**

> special thanks to kaz, ryley, and katie for being excellent betas and sticking with me through this fic even when it was hard. how meta.
> 
> title from "i would do anything for you" by foster the people

Living under the same roof as Oikawa Tooru, as it turns out, is different than simply living with him.

Not in ways that  _ completely _ throw Hajime off. He’s basically known Oikawa for as long as he’s known himself. But sometimes Oikawa will do something like sing along to pop music in the shower at seven in the morning and Hajime will think,  _ of course he would,  _ as he stuffs his head under his pillow and gets annoyed because he’s actually not that bad. It’s the kind of thing that makes Hajime mad at himself for not quite expecting it; for not having been able to fill in that particular blank of the mad lib personality of his childhood friend himself. Each new discovery is something so undeniably Oikawa that it hardly even feels like a discovery at all, more like a dusty memory unearthed from the back of his mind.

So there are some things about living together with Oikawa that Hajime really hadn’t considered before moving in with him and yet just seem  _ right _ .

Their apartment is small and humble with windows that don’t close all the way and a bathroom light that flickers with the effort of turning on. There’s pieces of Oikawa  _ everywhere _ , from the bobby pins and avocado face masks on the bathroom counter that Hajime always gets stuck cleaning to the sweaty knee braces he leaves on the coffee table in the living room. 

Oikawa has always had Hajime’s back, but now Hajime is completely surrounded by him in a way that he supposes  _ should  _ feel smothering, but is weirdly comforting, instead. Even when he’s not home, Oikawa is always on his mind. When he stops for coffee on his way back to the apartment, he picks up Oikawa’s favorite flavor and a milk bread, too, because Oikawa is studying hard in between classes and volleyball and Hajime wants to be there for him. When he’s checking out books from the library to use for his research paper, he remembers that Oikawa was talking about needing an astronomy book for a project and checks that out, too. When he gets out of his 8am classes, he texts Oikawa to make sure he gets up in time for his 10am ones, and when that doesn’t work, drags him out of bed himself as soon as he makes it back.

That last thing is just one of the many little ways Oikawa drives Hajime  _ insane _ , and it’s proof that certain things never change, apartment lease or no apartment lease.

Luckily, after 19 years of being his best friend, Hajime is a pro at dealing with Oikawa-related annoyances. So when Oikawa comes home pink-wristed, sweaty-browed, and jelly-boned from hours of volleyball practice, Hajime is already bracing himself for the inevitable, whiney “Iwa-chaaaaan,” that follows right on cue.

He hears Oikawa toss his keys into the bowl by the door and kick off his shoes on his way to the couch Hajime is curled up on.

“Hey,” Hajime says sternly, looking up from his book, “I thought I told you not to leave your shoes in the middle of the floor.” He’s tripped over Oikawa’s sneakers one too many times on his way to the kitchen in the mornings.

Oikawa’s face scrunches, red from chilly night air and volleyball, mouth curved down around a frustrated whine. Huffing, he turns around and kicks his shoes against the wall so they’re out of the way. Hajime is about to climb over the couch and give him a righteous noogie for being such a brat about it, but as he hooks his arm around the back of it, he sees the pained look on Oikawa’s face and the insults he was scripting in his head blink out of his consciousness.

His eyebrows pinch together in concern. “Oikawa?” he asks carefully, eyes instinctively flitting down to Oikawa’s right knee, watching it tremble as he stands with his tense shoulders up to his ears.

Oikawa lets out a long breath, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. His shoulders slump and the duffle bag he had slung over one slips to the floor with a heavy thud.

“Oikawa,” Hajime says warningly, ready to scold him all over again, though for a different reason than before.

Oikawa groans harshly, turning on his heel and limping over to the couch. He slings himself over the back of it like a wet towel being hung out to dry and deflates with an annoyed sigh.

“Is it your knee?” Hajime asks even though he knows it is, folding his book and setting it down on the coffee table. He scoots back and brings his knees up to his chest to make room for Oikawa to sit properly and Oikawa accepts the wordless invitation, inelegantly sliding down into the lumpy couch cushions. Hajime scoffs at the amateur contortionist position Oikawa has found himself in, bent double with his knees on either side of his head and his chin tucked against his chest. Hajime helps him unfurl with a gentle hand and a roll of his eyes until Oikawa is taking up most of the space on the couch, leaning against one of the armrests with his feet in Hajime’s lap. Hajime’s practiced fingers undo the binding of Oikawa’s knee brace until it’s completely loose, discarding it on the coffee table next to his forgotten book.

Oikawa’s chin is pointed to the ceiling when Hajime fixes him with a deep glare. He seems to sense it and slowly tilts his head back down with a sheepish smile.

“You’re a dumbass,” Hajime says matter-of-factly. Oikawa’s knee is glistening with sweat from being covered with a brace, but Hajime smooths his palm over it, anyway.

And this part, this  _ is  _ different. Hajime is used to touching Oikawa, sure - grabbing his wrist and pulling him off the glossy wood floor of the Aoba Johsai gym, the Kitagawa Daichi gym, the neighborhood rec center gym, the wood chips on the playground where they first met. Rough but well-meaning headbutts when Oikawa forgets there’s more than one player on his side of the court. Jabs in the ribs when Oikawa quips about the lack of girls’ numbers stored in Hajime’s phone. Bumps of their shoulders when they play Mario Kart together on Oikawa’s bedroom floor.

It makes sense, Hajime supposes, that they find other reasons to touch now. Coming home to someone everyday will do that to you. Domestic life - if Hajime dares to call it that - has made them soft. It’s new, it’s old, and somehow, it’s right.

Oikawa’s toes curl into the front of Hajime’s shirt. He laughs weakly. “Come on, Iwa-chan, it’s not even that bad,” he tries half-heartedly, because they both know that’s never worked on Hajime before and it’s not going to start now. Still, he’s desperate enough to try to move his knee for emphasis, but hisses in pain and stills almost immediately. He chews his bottom lip, glaring down at his leg like he might be able to intimidate it into not hurting.

“I’m serious,” Hajime says firmly, running a second hand up Oikawa’s calf until it meets the first at his knee. His wide thumbs rub gentle circles into the sides of it, fingers lightly curled against the soft hairs of his sticky skin. He wraps his arms around Oikawa’s lower leg almost protectively, like he needs to shield it from Oikawa himself. “Do I need to come with you to practice to make sure you don’t let it get this bad?”

Oikawa glares at him weakly. “I can take care of myself, Iwa-chan,” he says, fingers winding into the front of his shirt.

Hajime doesn’t buy it. He just says, “ _ Oikawa _ ,” and Oikawa seems to get the message.

“ _ Ugh _ ! Back off,” he blurts, exasperated hands flying into the air above his head. The already pink tint on his cheeks bursts to life under his skin like watercolor.

“I mean it, I will come to practice with you. To watch out for you,” Hajime reiterates, taking care to make it sound less like a threat. He closes his palm over Oikawa’s knee again, thumb brushing across the dip in its side. Oikawa freezes for a moment, then squirms under Hajime’s firm gaze and looks away. Hajime feels heat rush into his cheeks and looks down at his hands on Oikawa’s leg. He clears his throat. “Since you won’t be able to play like this,” he adds gruffly, and means,  _ Since I care about you. _

He looks up at Oikawa, mouth slanted at an awkward angle and eyebrows drawn together. Oikawa looks at him tiredly for a moment, then sighs.

“Iwa-chan, are you my mom?” he teases, raising an eyebrow.

Hajime smiles a little and then a lot when Oikawa flashes him a grin in return. With his good leg, Oikawa pushes his heel against Hajime’s stomach.

“Massage my feet?” he asks, batting his eyelashes and wiggling his toes. 

Hajime’s grin flickers out. “No way in hell,” he says flatly, shoving the foreign legs out of his lap and getting up. He huffs down at Oikawa, who is pouting impressively, and tells him, “I’m going to get you a compress for your knee and  _ you’re _ going to stay put.”

Oikawa swoons dramatically. “You’re so hot when you order me around,” he says and Hajime smothers him with a pillow.

  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  


Iwaizumi Hajime is not a morning person.

He used to be. As the ace of Seijoh’s volleyball team, he  _ had  _ to be. He’d be up and at ‘em at 4am every week day to go for a run and make it to morning practice. By the time he got home and finished his homework, he’d be so tired he’d fall asleep the second his head hit his pillow.

He doesn’t play volleyball anymore and his feelings about that are...mixed, at best. Somewhere along the line he just realized he wasn’t meant to go pro and that was that. He still remembers the look on Oikawa’s face when Hajime told him he wasn’t gonna try out for their college’s team; how the only word that could even begin to describe it was heartbreak, and how even that does not seem severe enough.

But if there is one thing Hajime  _ does  _ like about his now volleyball-less schedule, it’s that he gets to sleep in, provided he doesn’t have an early morning class. 

And provided Oikawa doesn’t somehow get involved.

“Iwa-chan,” Hajime hears, soft and wispy like mesh curtains floating on a yellow morning breeze. He breathes a little deeper, curls a little further against his mattress. Vaguely, he registers light filtering through his eyelids, but the comforting, peaceful dark behind his eyes beckons him back into unconsciousness.

A familiar voice beckons a little louder. “ _ Iwa-chan _ ,” it hisses urgently and Hajime wrinkles his nose, a deep crease forming between his thick eyebrows. He feels what he thinks is a hand, delicate but firm, touch the skin of his shoulder and squeeze.

His eyes don't open so much as unstick, bleary and glazed from hours of deep sleep. They scan over the figure taking shape in front of him - a smudge of milk-chocolate hair, the angle of a bent arm, the regal tip of a nose.

Oh. It’s Oikawa.

“Iwa-chan,” he whines, and whatever this is about, Hajime has the suspicion that it doesn’t warrant the dramatic frown weighing down Oikawa’s expression. “Iwa-chan, you have to help.”

Hajime, against his better judgement, turns his head to look at the alarm clock on his night stand. 

It’s 7:15 am. Saturday.

“Literally,” Hajime manages to grumble, wrenching his gaze back towards Oikawa and channeling as much of the rage he knows is in him somewhere underneath all the grogginess into his glare, “You had better be in mortal fuckin’ danger.”

Oikawa makes a long, desperate noise in the back of his throat and lets his other hand join the first on Hajime’s bare chest, patting him insistently. “My  _ hair  _ is in mortal danger,” Oikawa wails, the pads of his fingers pressing against Hajime’s sleep-warm skin, and in his exhausted state he doesn’t have the decency to stop himself from thinking it maybe actually feels kind of nice. He does, however, file the thought away for later, the same way you file away an overdue assignment: long enough to forget about before it comes back to bite you in the ass.

Hajime reaches for one of Oikawa’s wrists, the tip of his middle finger wrapping all the way around and grazing his thumb. It’s familiar, and takes the edge off his irritation. 

“What,” he says blankly, looking at Oikawa the same way his mother used to look at him when she told him to stop what he was doing before she counted to three, or else. Oikawa’s hair looks fine to him.

“There’s this gigantic spider in the shower,” Oikawa rushes out, clasping Hajime’s hand between his and trying to yank him out of bed. “Please, Iwa-chan, you  _ have _ to get rid of it.”

Hajime sighs, sitting up. “Why are you up so early, anyway,” he yawns, eyes scrunching shut as he lets himself be pulled to his feet. “It’s a Saturday.”

“Well,  _ some _ of us care about staying in shape,” Oikawa says, sharply poking Hajime in the stomach to make his point. “I went for a run this morning.”

Hajime swats him away, face heating unpleasantly. He runs his palm over the sore spot Oikawa left and, yeah, he’s definitely...softer than he used to be. It’s probably the freshman 15, or something. 

“I’m not out of shape,” he protests anyway as Oikawa drags him to the bathroom, rubbing his narrowed eyes. “You’re just insane.”

“Insanely good-looking, you mean,” Oikawa corrects.

“Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night, Shittykawa.”

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much.”

Hajime rolls his eyes as he pulls the shower curtain aside, scanning the old tub and tile walls for the alleged spider.

“Where is it?” he turns and asks Oikawa when he can’t spot it. Oikawa tip-toes closer, placing his warm hands on Hajime’s back and peering over his shoulder as if the spider might jump out and attack him if he gets too close. Hajime leans into him, just a little. Traversing the apartment in nothing but a pair of boxers has made him cold, after all, and Oikawa has that dewy warmth that comes from the exertion of running clinging to him right now, despite the winter chill fogging the windows. Goosebumps rise across Hajime’s skin wherever the heat of Oikawa’s body doesn’t reach.

“Ah!” Oikawa squeaks suddenly, breaking Hajime out of his thoughts and making him let out an amused snort, and points to a corner of the tub. “There there  _ there Iwa-chan there _ \- “

“Oh, that?” Hajime says, squinting and leaning down to get a closer look. Sure enough, what he initially thought was just a speck of grime starts to move, scurrying up the side of the tub. It’s  _ tiny _ and more than likely harmless, but Oikawa still shrieks the second it starts its ascent.

“Kill it  _ kill it kill it Iwa-chan kill it _ ,” he begs, grabbing Hajime by the shoulders and shaking him viciously.

“Oh my god,” Hajime says flatly, shoving Oikawa off of him. “Stop panicking and get a magazine or something.”

Oikawa is eager to leave the room, sprinting like his life depends on it before returning and offering Hajime a rolled-up magazine from behind the door frame.

“Seriously?” Hajime sighs and shakes his head, swiping the magazine from Oikawa’s grip and unfurling it. “You won’t even come inside?”

Oikawa sticks his tongue out at him petulantly. “Say what you want about me, I’m staying right here.”

Hajime scoffs, crouching by the tub and glancing around for the spider. It made it about halfway up the side of the tub before apparently deciding to stop. Slowly, Hajime lowers the magazine into the empty bath. He snickers at the sudden emergence of an old memory. 

“This reminds me of that time when we were 12 and you were sleeping over at my house - “

“That’s quite enough, Iwa-chan, you don’t have to - “

“ - And you said you saw a spider on the carpet and got so freaked out you made me let you sleep in my bed while I took the floor,” he finishes, grinning as he slides a page of the magazine underneath the spider and lifts it up. He stands and looks over his shoulder, seeing Oikawa pout as he clings to the door frame. “You’ve always been such a baby,” Hajime adds, unable to keep the fondness out of his voice.

“That’s not how I remember it,” Oikawa grumbles and Hajime smiles as he stretches out his arm so the edge of the magazine with the spider sitting on it is directly in front of Oikawa’s face.

“Say hi,” Hajime says pleasantly just as Oikawa stumbles back against the adjacent wall, back flush against the peeling wallpaper.

“Get that hideous  _ thing _ out of my face,” Oikawa demands, resembling a spider himself, what with the way his arms spread out over the wall like he’s about to climb it to get away.

Hajime frowns, playing dumb. “It’s cute,” he says and takes a step closer to Oikawa, lifting the magazine to eye-level once more.

“It’s  _ evil _ ,” Oikawa counters, sticking to the wall as he shuffles down the hall towards the living room. “Who does it think it is, living in our shower without paying rent? It’s a creepy little freeloader, is what it is.”

“He wants to be your friend,” Hajime says, close to breaking down in a fit of laughter at the ugly, horrified look on Oikawa’s face. 

(Oikawa can look as hideous as he can look pretty and only a select few are privy to that sacred knowledge. There may or may not be a secret group chat founded by choice members of the Aoba Johsai team dedicated solely to sharing ugly pictures of Oikawa. If Hajime had his phone on him, he’d be adding more photos to the gallery right now.)

“Ha! Tell him to get in line,” Oikawa manages to quip just before Hajime shoves the magazine in front of his face again and he yelps, running around the living room as Hajime chases after him with a shit-eating grin on his face.

Hajime decides to count this as his morning run.

  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  


Hajime gets home, tosses his keys into the bowl by the door, and steps out of his shoes, letting his backpack slip down his arms and thud onto the floor behind him. He wrestles himself out of his jacket, turning and shoving his bag into a corner with his foot so it’s out of the way. Rubbing his frozen hands together and blowing hot air into his palms, he trudges straight to the couch where Oikawa happens to be sitting with his laptop balanced over his thighs. Hajime unceremoniously flops down onto the worn cushions and melts against them like he’s made of some kind of disgusting ooze, his upper arm brushing Oikawa’s. He closes his eyes and huffs irritably. 

It’s been a shitty day. 

He has three papers due this week and a bio lab he needs to prep for and today he found out the hard way that he’s the only one who’s been doing any work on his group history project. 

The telltale sound of laptop keys clicking comes to a stop as Hajime feels the couch dip with Oikawa's movement. He cracks an eye open, seeing Oikawa stretch to set his laptop down on their coffee table before settling back against the couch and giving Hajime an assessing look.

“You look awful,” is what Oikawa, in his infinite wisdom, comes up with, and Hajime sends a glare and a flimsy middle finger his way. Oikawa elbows him lightly in the ribs in retaliation. His tone softens when he asks, “How was the library? Did you make any progress on that paper?”

“Yeah,” Hajime grunts, then laughs sardonically. “I finished that one, though I haven’t proofread it. Now I gotta work on my ethics paper, my kinesiology paper, and that dumb history project that no one else in my group is working on.” He glares at some unknown point middle-distance, sinking deeper into both the couch cushions and existential despair.

“Aw, poor Iwa-chan,” Oikawa cooes, which only pisses Hajime off more. “Your tiny brain must be completely overwhelmed.”

Hajime sighs roughly, not having the energy to argue and instead settling for a weak glare. It fizzles out when he notices the faint rings of purple smudged under Oikawa’s eyes and the messy way his hair flops across his forehead. Hajime frowns.

“You okay?” he asks cautiously, tilting his head to get a better look at him.

Oikawa smiles, but the stretch of his lips is brittle. Tired. “Yeah, I’m good,” he lies. “Unlike you. Seriously, you look sick or something.”

Hajime scowls, knowing Oikawa is just trying to steer the conversation away from himself.

“Are you  _ sure _ ?” he presses on sternly.

Oikawa groans. “ _ Yes _ , oh my god, let me live,” he says. “Figure your own crap out before micromanaging me.”

Hajime rubs the bridge of his nose and sighs. They’re both quiet for a moment, the air not quite tense but not quite comfortable. Hajime hates it. He slumps to the side, head falling into the crook of Oikawa’s bony shoulder. The last thing he wants right now is to fight, so he drops the issue. Coming home to Oikawa is usually the highlight of his day. He doesn’t want to ruin it by being too overbearing. He can do that some other time.

After a while, Oikawa shifts to accommodate Hajime’s weight rather than making some snide remark about it, which Hajime appreciates. Hajime crosses his arms comfortably over his chest, settling in against Oikawa’s side. Oikawa rests his cheek against the top of his head, his body nestling closer, and the irritation leaves Hajime in the form of a satisfied breath. Fatigue tugs his eyelids down.

“Do you want me to wake you at some point?” Oikawa asks quietly, reading his mind in that way only Oikawa can. When they were little, he’d insist they had telepathy and try to guess what Hajime was thinking. The scariest part was that he was often right, though Hajime was reluctant to admit as much. “So you don’t sleep the day away and wake up in the middle of the night in a panic because you didn’t get your work done.”

Hajime lets out a humorless puff of a laugh. That’s happened to Oikawa more than once, and each time he’d come rushing into Hajime’s room in a panic until Hajime sat him down at the kitchen table and made him coffee while Oikawa cranked out whatever assignment he almost missed. 

“Yeah,” he mumbles sleepily. “Gimme an hour.” He yawns loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth, and is just conscious enough to suggest, “You should take a nap, too. You look tired.”

Oikawa chuckles, and Hajime can feel the vibrations against his cheek. He pivots his head slightly, nose brushing the soft fabric of Oikawa’s shirt, and feels warm familiarity flood him at the smell of the detergent they now share. “Okay, Iwa-chan. I’ll set an alarm for an hour from now.”

Hajime hums in response, appeased, and lets himself drift off into sleep.

  
  
  
  
  
  


Oikawa could not have picked a shittier song to wake up to.

Hajime doesn’t know it, because he and Oikawa have profoundly different tastes in music, but it’s something loud and American and full of overpowering bass. Hajime grumbles, shifting uncomfortably. He tilts his head up blindly, mumbling, “Oikawa,” nose brushing a warm cheek when Oikawa jerks awake.

Hajime’s eyes open slowly, lids heavy and uncooperative as Oikawa’s pinched face comes into view. He snorts.

“You look good,” he says, amused, as Oikawa moves to scratch an itch on his cheek and gasps in horror when his fingertips feel the drool by the corner of his mouth. He wipes it with the back of his hand, eyes still screwed shut and lips curled in a grimace.

This would be another good photo op for the “pictures of oikawa that make us feel better about how we look” group chat, but there’s something to be said for being the only person who knows what Oikawa looks like when he’s just waking up, too. It’s charmingly hideous and, in his sleep-dizzy state, Hajime allows himself to think it’s just for him.

Oikawa scrambles for his phone, finally silencing the headache-inducing music blasting from its speaker. They both breathe a sigh of relief. Oikawa yawns loudly, not bothering to cover his mouth the way he would if they were in public. Hajime smiles lopsidedly and leans forward to rest his forehead in the crook of Oikawa’s neck. He feels the point of Oikawa’s chin on his shoulder and the long sigh making his tired body sag.

“Napping was a bad idea,” Oikawa grumbles and Hajime grunts in agreement. They both needed the sleep and, yeah, there’s something comforting about dozing off while leaning on Oikawa’s side, but now Hajime has even less motivation to work than before.

He huffs and squeezes his eyes shut. “Okay,” he breathes, steeling himself. He leans back, Oikawa’s chin slipping off his shoulder, and grabs Oikawa by the upper arms.

Oikawa looks kind of miserable. Which makes Hajime kind of miserable.

“Have you eaten yet today?” Hajime asks warily, afraid of the answer.

Oikawa blinks and waits a second too long before replying, “Yeah.”

_ Bullshit.  _ Hajime sighs. “If I order takeout, will you make coffee?” he offers, chest warming when Oikawa smiles tiredly but sincerely in response.

He gives Oikawa’s arms an encouraging squeeze before forcing himself to his feet. After stretching his arms above his head and hearing something in his back crack disconcertingly, he takes Oikawa’s hands and pulls him up off the couch, too.

“Drink some water, too,” he suggests as Oikawa trudges into the kitchen. “Once you’re hydrated and have eaten, you’ll be able to work much more efficiently.”

“Yes, coach,” Oikawa sighs and grabs mugs from the cupboard.

They chug coffee in the kitchen and eat their takeout on the living room floor, the TV droning in the background. As Hajime slurps his noodles, he feels Oikawa’s crossed legs grazing his under the coffee table, bony and warm and familiar. He thinks about all the winters Oikawa spent at the Iwaizumi household huddled underneath the kotatsu in the living room, peeling mandarins and brushing his socked feet against Hajime’s.

“Remember when our neighborhood had a power outage that one winter when we were six?” Oikawa says, digging through his curry, likely in search of mushrooms to pick out, with a smile dimpling one cheek.

Hajime sets down his chopsticks and pushes his container of soba over to Oikawa’s side of the table. “Yeah, I remember,” he chuckles as Oikawa deposits mushroom after mushroom into Hajime’s noodles. “We were basically snowed in for, like, three days. And our parents wouldn’t even let us play outside because we wouldn’t be able to warm up again after.”

Oikawa grins, sliding Hajime’s noodles back over. “But we did anyway,” he snickers.

“Pretty shitty decision,” Hajime says, twirling his chopsticks and watching slick soba noodles, now with extra mushrooms mixed into them, wrap around the ends. He sticks them in his mouth. Chewing, he adds, “When we got back inside you were convinced you had frostbite and that your fingers were gonna get amputated.”

Oikawa almost chokes on his rice in laughter, pounding his chest with his fist. Hajime smiles around his chopsticks. 

“Okay, okay, okay,” Oikawa says breathlessly, recovering with a smirk and an accusatory finger at the ready, “but you were probably more freaked out by the idea than I was.”

Hajime reddens, just a little. He had forgotten that part.

“You made me put on, like, every pair of gloves you had in the house,” Oikawa continues, apparently unwilling to let Hajime eat in peace, “And you kept holding my hands and saying,  _ It’s okay, Tooru, you can still play volleyball even without fingers _ .” He laughs so hard he snorts, slapping the table and making everything on it clatter. “As  _ if _ \- “

“I was just trying to make you feel better, okay?” Hajime says defensively, shoving more soba into his mouth and chewing haughtily. “You were bawling and I was sick of it, so there.”

Another lie, albeit slightly less obvious than ‘you don’t need fingers to play volleyball.’ While it’s true Hajime can’t bear to see Oikawa cry - like, actually, physically cannot handle it - it’s not because it annoys him. And it didn’t annoy him back then, either. ‘Annoyance’ is simultaneously too mild and too hostile a word. ‘Heartbreak’ comes a bit closer.

“You started tearing up, admit it,” Oikawa pushes, leaning in eagerly. “You just couldn’t stand the thought of anything happening to your sweet little Tooru.”

Now it’s Hajime’s turn to choke, blood boiling under the skin of his cheeks as he coughs violently into the palm of his hand. He apparently has a lot of feelings about Oikawa referring to himself as his sweet little  _ anything _ , none of which he has the mental capacity to unpack right now.

Oikawa, meanwhile, looks absolutely giddy; unapologetically enthusiastic about Hajime’s apparent distress. His bent knees bounce excitedly under the table, his grinning bottom lip caught between his teeth. What an asshole.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, Oikawa,” Hajime says, voice rough and unconvincing. He clears his throat. “Which reminds me, who was it that had a meltdown because his night light wouldn’t work during the power outage again?”

Oikawa gapes, cheeks pink. “I had a  _ phobia _ , Iwa-chan.”

Hajime grins, wide and open. “Yeah, and the only possible cure was evidently me holding your hand until you fell asleep,” he recalls, but his words don’t have the mocking edge he meant to add. It’s a good memory, he realizes, the feeling of Oikawa’s hand in his; the gentle touch of their foreheads; the lull of Oikawa’s sleeping breaths. Most of his memories of Oikawa are good and, now that he thinks about it, most of his memories are of Oikawa. Huh.

Oikawa takes offense anyway and sticks his tongue out. “You meanie,” he whines and kicks him under the table.

Hajime sticks his tongue out, too, and can’t help but chuckle when Oikawa starts bubbling with laughter. He can’t help a lot of things when he’s with Oikawa. 

“Okay, but,” Oikawa starts, still giggling, “that snowball fight was pretty fun. No regrets.”

Hajime arches an eyebrow at him. “Not even about losing because you kept trying to jump serve them?” he asks. 

“Hey, I actually made it one time,” Oikawa says defensively, though he’s still smiling.

Hajime will give him that. “That's true,” he says. “You did.”

Oikawa looks pleased with the admission and goes back to happily stuffing his face in that sloppy, undignified way he does when it’s just the two of them. He’s still too pale, his hair is still messy (and not in that deliberate yet somehow effortlessly stylish way it usually is), and he still looks like he hasn’t slept in days, but he’s smiling, and to Hajime that has always been the most important thing.

  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  


They fight. 

They’ve always fought. 

It’s impossible to know Oikawa Tooru for five minutes (let alone  _ 19 years _ ) and  _ not  _ want to fight him, as far as Hajime’s concerned. He’s stubborn and cunning and a royal fucking pain and sometimes they just  _ get to  _ each other.

And sometimes, it really fucking sucks.

Oikawa, incidentally, absolutely forbids Hajime from coming to practice with him, which catches Hajime a little bit by surprise. Oikawa hadn’t seemed averse to it when Hajime first made the offer, but when Hajime tried to make good on it, Oikawa made it clear that he would be just fine on his own.

And Hajime would be okay with that under normal circumstances. He has no problem giving Oikawa space. Or, at the very least, he doesn’t hate the idea _too_ much.

But the nights Oikawa comes home sour-faced and limping have gone from few to frequent over the past couple of weeks as the semester drags on, and because Hajime isn’t an idiot and actually thinks about these things (unlike a certain someone), he knows it’s because Oikawa is killing himself in almost every way possible. So Hajime keeps offering, keeps reaching out in spirit and in gentle touches to Oikawa’s knee, keeps reminding him that he could help if only Oikawa would let him. And he doesn’t just mean volleyball.

Their nap on the couch marks a change in Hajime; sparks new found resolve to do better both when it comes to his studies and when it comes to Oikawa. Hajime will give him a hard time about laundry or dishes or forgetting to turn off the kitchen light after he grabs a midnight snack, but he knows Oikawa is the furthest thing from lazy. He wakes up early for runs and morning practice, sits through endless lectures and takes notes until his hand cramps, plays volleyball until his lungs burn like dry ice and something in his knee tears, always in the same spot. He whittles himself down to nothing, and then does it all over again the next day. Hides the bruises and the friction burns on his arms behind his back. Laughs it off when his head drops into his bowl of cereal from sheer exhaustion one morning, wiping soggy granola off his cheek and flicking it at Hajime with a milky grin.

Hajime grimaces. It sticks to his chin, cold and wet, until he rubs it off with the cuff of his hoodie. “ _ Ugh _ ,” he utters, eyes following Oikawa to the sink where he sticks his face under the faucet to wash off his breakfast. “You’re a mess, Oikawa.”

Oikawa chuckles from under the running water. He lifts his head and turns the water off, drying his face with the front of his shirt. Hajime is at least seventy percent certain he’s just doing it to show off his abs, and at least sixty percent certain it isn’t working, because Hajime isn’t looking, anyway. He’s not.

Clearing his throat, Hajime focuses back on his own bowl of cereal.

“You haven’t heard?” Oikawa says, flopping gracelessly back into his chair and resting his cheek in his hand. He’s using that special tone of voice that lets Hajime know he’s about to try and bullshit him, and that he needs to exercise restraint lest he strangle his best friend on what is supposed to be a relaxing day off for both of them. He glances up, brow creasing when he sees that Oikawa’s eyes are not only sporting bags big enough to check in on a transcontinental flight, but also closed, like he’s talking in his sleep. “Face-planting in your cereal is all the rage nowadays. Since milk is good for your skin.” He yawns, long and loud, and leans harder against his hand. “Cleopatra used to bathe in it, you know.”

Hajime, frankly, couldn’t give less of a fuck about what Cleopatra did or didn’t bathe in, because Oikawa’s face is slipping out of his palm again and he’s either gonna fall into his cereal for the second time that morning or knock his chin against the kitchen table and potentially bite his tongue. As appealing as Oikawa not being able to speak would be under normal circumstances, the thought kind of makes Hajime miserable right now.

His hand darts across the table on instinct when Oikawa’s cheek slides off his palm, grabbing him by the chin before he hurts himself. Oikawa startles awake, body jerking and glassy eyes going wide.

Hajime gives him a look. “How much did you sleep last night?” he asks mildly - or at least tries to. The last thing he wants is to scare Oikawa off, but he’s also not as good at disguising his feelings as Oikawa is. His voice comes out gruffer than he intended.

Oikawa’s fingers circle Hajime’s wrist, pulling his hand away from his chin. He considers, or he pretends to. “Like, six hours?” he says in a way that sounds like a guess, but Hajime knows is actually just a blatant lie. People who get six hours of sleep don’t collapse into bowls of cereal. People with a schedule like Oikawa’s don’t get six hours of sleep.

He crosses his arms over his chest, sighing. “Come on, Oikawa,” he says wearily. 

Oikawa seems to have a shorter fuse than usual, his tongue pushing against the inside of his cheek in annoyance. “Why even ask if you’re not going to believe me?” he demands, hands disappearing under the table, most likely so he can wring them together without Hajime seeing. Somehow that makes him angry.

“Because I wanna hear you say it,” Hajime says firmly. “I want you to be honest with me.”

Oikawa rolls his eyes, getting up and carrying his bowl to the sink. He dumps his left over cereal down the drain, switching on the garbage disposal.

“Hey, you can’t skip breakfast,” Hajime warns him, glaring.

Oikawa gives him a sympathetic look and points to his ear, pretending not to hear him over the grating rumble of the sink.

“Real mature,” Hajime scoffs, and Oikawa shrugs, feigning helplessness. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

Oikawa switches the garbage disposal off, the room falling silent for a tense moment. Hajime almost wishes he could take the words back. Almost. 

“This is news to you?” Oikawa says airily, dropping his bowl in the sink.

“No,” Hajime responds, suddenly cold to the tips of his ears. This is going so wrong so quick and he knows it, but still can’t stop himself from saying, “It just seemed like you needed someone to remind you.”

“Ah,” says Oikawa, smiling wryly. “Thank you, Iwa-chan. I can always count on you.”

Hajime deliberately ignores the sarcasm in his voice as well as the sharp sting that it inspires in his chest. He stands, hands curling into loose fists at his sides. 

“I wish you would,” he mutters harshly, scowling at the floor.

Icy silence floods the apartment; fills Hajime’s lungs and drowns him from the inside out. And he doesn’t breathe any easier even after Oikawa stomps down the hall and slams his door shut.

  
  


* * *

 

 

Avoiding Oikawa is surprisingly easy, logistically. Their schedules don’t really line up and their bedrooms are on opposing sides of the apartment, so if they really wanted to (which apparently they do), they could probably go weeks limiting their interactions to brief sightings in the hall or rushed ‘See ya’s on their way out the door.

And honestly? It fucking sucks. Oikawa is a complete fucking nightmare and Hajime is completely fucking lost without him. You win, universe. It’s only been three days and Hajime is miserable. He can’t focus during lectures, his notes filling up with shitty drawings of peace signs and milk breads. He stops by the corner store on his way home from class, wondering what he could make for dinner that Oikawa would like before remembering they aren’t speaking, let alone eating together. Once, his mom calls him as he’s lying in bed, staring at the cracks in his ceiling, and he chokes up when she asks,  _ How is Tooru-chan? _

Because the truth is, he doesn’t know. He hasn’t really seen Oikawa in days. He could have broken his knee from too many jump serves or been abducted by aliens like he used to hope for when they were kids and Hajime would have no goddamn idea. And that’s terrifying.

Until now, Oikawa has always just  _ been there _ . They’ve always been a team, on and off the court. That was always the default; the natural order of things. The soft-spoken introvert on the playground that all the moms liked but all the kids didn’t and the gap-toothed boy that offered him a dinosaur band aid after he fell in the wood chips. The Grand King of Volleyball and his loyal, royal ace. Oikawa Tooru and Iwaizumi Hajime. Shittykawa and Iwa-chan.

Hajime feels most like himself when Oikawa is around and the only reason he realizes this now is because this is the first time Oikawa hasn’t been.

_ Oh, honey _ , he hears his mom say over the phone when he doesn’t answer. His breath comes in painful hisses through his grit teeth, his eyes screwed shut and still overflowing even after he covers them with his shaking hand.

_ What happened? _

  
  


* * *

 

 

The guy who lives two doors down sets his kitchen on fire that night. Hajime has only spoken to him a handful of times, which is frankly already too many. He’s in his 20s, has a really,  _ really  _ squeaky bed, definitely stole one of Hajime’s shirts from the laundry room, and apparently doesn’t know how to operate a toaster oven.

The fire alarm goes off while Hajime is absently bouncing a stress ball off his wall. It’s the first time it’s gone off since he and Oikawa moved in, so he’s not totally sure what it is at first, but when he steps into the living room and notices the faint smell of smoke in the air, his suspicions are confirmed.

Shit.

His first instinct is to fucking fireman-carry Oikawa out of the building, but after realizing how embarrassing that impulse is, he settles for rushing to Oikawa’s door and throwing it open.

“Oikawa, some idiot started a - “ He shuts his mouth.

Out of the two of them, Hajime has actually always been quickest to cry. It usually comes as a shock to anyone who makes that discovery; unlike Hajime, Oikawa seems to be constantly brimming with positive emotions, so people make the assumption that he’s just as open with his negative ones. When they were little - really little - there may have been some truth to that. But it was Hajime who cried when their families decided to go on separate vacations in the fifth grade. It was Hajime who cried after their devastating loss against Karasuno in senior year. It was Hajime who cried when he told Oikawa he wasn’t going to try out for their college team. And it was Oikawa who held him all night until he stopped.

“What’s wrong?” Hajime says quickly, voice thick, before remembering that, fuck, there’s a fire. 

Oikawa’s puffy eyes widen before he turns his head and rubs them dry, slouching further in his desk chair. He opens his mouth to speak, but Hajime doesn’t give him the chance. He darts forward, grabs Oikawa by the wrist, and makes a run for it. 

“Tell me later,” Hajime says decisively over his shoulder, sees Oikawa’s blotchy face, and wrenches his gaze forward again. His hand slips down Oikawa’s wrist to zip their fingers together and squeeze. Oikawa squeezes back hard and it grounds Hajime as they hurtle down the stairs into the lobby.

They grind to a halt as soon as they get there, panting. The other tenants are gathered in a loosely defined circle around a firefighter as she explains that it was really just a small kitchen fire that has already been taken care of and makes a face like she has better things to do than hose down someone’s toaster oven. Hajime lets out a long, relieved breath as the other tenants erupt into chatter, evidently peeved that they had to rush downstairs in their slippers and bathrobes. He turns to Oikawa, chuckling breathlessly at the long-suffering look on his face.

They seem to notice that they’re still holding hands at the same time, both glancing down at their locked fingers. Oikawa is the first to break the link, looking away and casually wiggling his hand out of Hajime’s grasp before slipping it into his pocket. Hajime clears his throat, drumming his sweaty fingers against his thigh.

_ This is awkward _ , he realizes, suddenly miserable again. Things between them have never been awkward before; not like this.

They trudge back up the stairs in heavy silence. This, Hajime thinks, might be his only chance to say something. In about a minute they’ll be back in their apartment and Oikawa will disappear into his room for the rest of the night. Then again, Hajime not minding his own business is what got them into this mess in the first place, so maybe it’s Oikawa’s turn to talk.

They reach their floor seconds later, Hajime’s heart pounding harder with each step. He goes cold to the tips of his ears as he watches Oikawa reach for the door and push it open, the lights inside still on and their shoes still by the threshold as if they never even left. As if nothing has changed. As if Hajime finally had his chance to break out of their sickly new routine and let it slip through his fingers. It’s over. It’s done.

The fire in his gut flickers out, his mouth tasting like ash. Oikawa has his back turned to him, hands balled into fists at his sides. He takes a step toward his room.

“Wait,” Hajime hears himself say, his voice raw. Oikawa stops and turns around. His face is still blotchy and red. Hajime closes his eyes and sucks in a breath. “Can we, like, talk?” he asks, hopeful and terrified.

Oikawa looks like that’s the last thing he wants to do, glancing off to the side. Hajime realizes it’s been days since Oikawa has looked at him, really looked at him, and feels his chest tighten with how much he suddenly misses it.

“Okay,” Oikawa breathes, moving into the kitchen and flopping into a chair. Hajime follows, but doesn’t take the seat across from him. Doing that would make this feel like a job interview or an interrogation, and there’s too many eggshells for Hajime to tiptoe around as it is. Instead, he leans back against the kitchen counter, rubbing the back of his neck.

“Why were you crying?” he asks carefully, glancing up from the floor. Oikawa scowls and crosses his arms, like he was expecting the question but isn’t any less pissed off by it.

“Because our neighbors are terrible,” he replies flatly.

“Oikawa,  _ please _ ,” Hajime says sternly. “I just - I just want to help - “

“Oh, well, wanna know what  _ I  _ want?” Oikawa says slowly, voice too loud, too cheerful, and Hajime looks up and sees him with that same terrible expression he had when he used to talk about grinding Kageyama and Ushijima into the dirt. 

Hajime will never, ever admit it, but even he is terrified of that look. He presses his lips into a flat line.

“ _ I  _ want you to stop doing things I never asked for and then making me feel like a piece of shit for not playing along.” He laughs bitterly, shaking his head. “I guess we’re both shit out of luck.”

Hajime bites the inside of his cheek, closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath. Maybe he’s pushing too hard again. He needs to calm down. “I’m not trying to make you feel like a piece of shit, Oikawa,” he says, pressing the heels of his palms against his eyes, “but fuck, I can’t stand seeing you like this.”

This is something that Hajime himself doesn’t really understand - the fact that he feels whatever pain Oikawa goes through ten-fold. He loses sleep over the fact that Oikawa is at his laptop at ungodly hours of the morning churning out essays he couldn’t do earlier because he was at practice. He feels hollow when he opens their fridge and sees that Oikawa hasn’t even managed to touch the lunch he made him. He feels exhausted when he passes the bathroom and catches Oikawa religiously smearing concealer under his eyes with trembling fingers.

It  _ hurts _ him, seeing Oikawa so stressed out. It hurts.

So much for calming down.

“Like  _ what _ ?” Oikawa laughs incredulously, high and thin like he really doesn’t understand. Maybe he doesn’t. “Iwa-chan, all I’m doing is working hard so I can  _ get better _ , there’s nothing  _ wrong _ .”

“Yes there is!” Hajime shoots back, an explosion behind his ribs launching shrapnel at his beating heart as he slams his fist against the kitchen counter. The cereal box sitting on top of it tips over, granola spilling out over its surface. Hajime pulls his fist back, gritting his teeth. 

Part of him - maybe the same part that told him quitting volleyball was the right choice - wants to walk away from this. Oikawa is selfish and stubborn, a monarch on and off the court, and Hajime is tired. He’s scared he’s getting nowhere, he’s scared he’s getting too close. He’s scared he’s being overbearing, he’s scared he’s not doing enough. He wonders if it still counts as a failure if he doesn’t even try to succeed.

Maybe walking away  _ is  _ the answer. Oikawa says he needs space and Hajime can’t think of an alternative that Oikawa hasn’t explicitly rejected.  _ Of course _ he wants to help,  _ of course _ he wants to hold Oikawa’s fucking hand and kiss his fucking forehead and tell him he can make it all go away - everything, so the whole goddamn universe shrinks until they’re the only two left to fill it - but that’s evidently not what Oikawa wants.

“Yes there is, Oikawa, don’t fuck with me,” he hears himself continue on anyway, because he can rationalize and plan all he wants, but being there for Oikawa will always come most naturally to him. Even when it hurts. “You’re not sleeping, you’re  _ barely _ eating, you’re always either at practice or studying, and for what? To ‘get better’? It’s not good for you!”

Oikawa’s jaw clenches as he turns his head away, glowering at the wall. Hajime sucks in a breath and walks over to him, slow and purposeful. He puts a hand on Oikawa’s shoulder only to be shrugged off, and it stings, but Hajime realizes then that Oikawa’s not the only one who’s stubborn. He can’t get rid of Hajime that easily. Because this - helping, or trying to - is right. And it’s what he’s always done, and it’s what he’ll always do.

Hajime tries again, this time aiming for Oikawa’s wrist and then, feeling bold, his hand. It’s pale and cold and trembling when Hajime takes it. He tugs Oikawa up from his chair; runs his thumb along the lines of Oikawa’s stiff palm, looking down at it in thought. 

He remembers, suddenly, that Oikawa went through a short phase in middle school where he would pretend to know how to read palms, but Hajime had always secretly wondered - a little wishfully, maybe - if it was just an excuse to hold his hand. After all, Oikawa’s ‘predictions’ mostly involved Hajime buying his best friend a milk bread, so it’s not like he actually had any idea what he was talking about.

Similarly, Hajime has no idea what to say to make him feel better right now.

He looks up and sees Oikawa still glaring and sighs, squeezing his hand. Oikawa doesn’t squeeze back, but he still isn’t pulling away. For now, it’s enough.

“Hajime,” Oikawa says, another solid indication that he’s still mad, as his face twists in frustration he usually takes out on the court, but that Hajime is coaxing to the surface right here in their tiny kitchen. “I’m not some helpless child for you to - “ He cuts himself off with a bitter sigh, shaking his head. Hajime wonders if he’s meant to interject somehow, but he decides against it. He’s talked enough already. They both stay silent for a long moment; silent and thinking.  

“Maybe I am,” Oikawa whispers suddenly; dryly. Again, Hajime gets the urge to cut him off, this time to say,  _ No, you’re wrong about yourself _ , and again he bites his tongue. Oikawa needs to get this out and Hajime needs to let him. “That’s why I… This is just a fraction of what it takes to be a regular player on a college level team, okay? I’m slacking off as it is. And if I keep waiting for you to come rescue me like some fucking damsel in distress - “

Oikawa’s voice breaks and he cuts himself off again, blinking up at the ceiling wetly and pressing his lips into a tight line.

Hajime feels his own eyes well up, the sharp angles of Oikawa’s face blurring with his unshed tears. He takes a deep breath through his nose and locks their fingers together. Oikawa does squeeze back this time, and seems to squeeze Hajime’s heart at the same time. Hajime does his best to ignore the tightness in his chest. 

“Just because you need help doesn’t mean you’re helpless,” he says firmly. “That’s not the point I was trying to make. I’m just - “ he lets out a quivering, deflating breath - “worried about you.”

Oikawa looks at the floor, his grip on Hajime’s hand tightening. Hajime follows his gaze downward and studies their socked feet, tips just an inch apart.

“I understand now,” Hajime tells him softly, “the kind of pressure that you’re under. I guess the stakes are higher than when we were in high school. But you’re not gonna be any use to your team if all you do is create more hurdles for yourself and trip over them.”

Oikawa’s hand twitches in his. Hajime squeezes it again.

“I know we’re not teammates anymore,” he tries, but the words feel so wrong he stops and can’t help but correct himself with a shake of his head, “No, actually fuck that. We’ll always be teammates. I’m always on your side, Tooru. I promise.”

They glance up at the same time, heads bowed, hands linked. The tension drains from Oikawa’s face and he closes his eyes, slumping forward, a solid weight against Hajime’s body but still just a little too light. He buries his nose into Hajime’s shoulder and breathes in. Hajime reaches up to run his free hand through his hair and uses the other to squeeze Oikawa’s. Hajime could sob. He’s missed him  _ so much _ .

“I’m so tired,” Oikawa whispers, face hot against the side of Hajime’s neck, and even though he was waiting for Oikawa to admit it, this doesn’t feel like a victory.

  
  
  


* * *

 

  
  


It would be nice if things got better all at once; if the bags under Oikawa’s eyes magically lifted and his knee stopped cramping up after a passionate monologue from his best friend.

Hajime knows they won’t, though, because their fight in the kitchen was not actually the first time he’s had to bully Oikawa into taking care of himself. He’s helped Oikawa claw his way out of the trenches of his own self destruction more times than he can count, and he suspects -  _ hopes  _ \- he will be able to keep doing so for a long, long time.

It’s been a week since they cleared the air and Oikawa’s progress is slow. Frustratingly, agonizingly slow. He’s still reluctant to accept help or take a break. There are more fights, some minor and some explosive (which Hajime would honestly take any day over the stony silence from a week ago), to the point where Oikawa will sometimes even storm out of the apartment and stumble home hours later with a flush in his cheeks that has nothing to do with anger anymore.

Tonight is a night like that - or, it would be. The thing is, Hajime is pretty sick of this whole routine. He’s not interested in waiting around for Oikawa to wander home by himself, or worse - not make it home at all. By this point he’s gotten good enough at predicting Oikawa’s behavior to know where he’s at, and also that he can’t be left alone.

There’s a bar a couple blocks down the street from the apartment and Oikawa, thanks to the laminating machine in the trunk of Nekoma’s old captain’s car, has a fake ID. Hajime remembers busting a gut laughing when Oikawa first showed it off.

_ It says your birthday is January 4th, 1981 _ , he pointed out incredulously, swiping the card from Oikawa’s grasp and shoving it back in his face.  _ Have you read this thing? Oikawa, it says you’re thirty-fucking-seven years old. No way in hell anyone is gonna buy that. _

Oikawa had just pouted at him, though he had the sense to look a little embarrassed, too. Hajime still didn’t let him off the hook.

_ And why does it say your birthday is January 4th? Why not use your actual birthday? _ he went on in exasperated hysterics.  _ If they check your card and ask you to verify your date of birth from memory, you are  _ so  _ fucked. You totally got taken for a ride, Oikawa. How much did Kuroo charge you for this? _

Oikawa huffed instead of answering, crossing his arms and turning his head away.  _ Laugh all you want, Iwa-chan _ , he said finally,  _ but I’ll be the one laughing when I’m at a bar buying drinks for pretty girls. _

_ 37 year old women, you mean. _

_ Shut up! _

Even with the nauseating dread pooling in his gut, Hajime can’t help but smile at the memory as he briskly shuffles down the block, hands shoved deep in his jacket pockets and shoulders tensed against the cold. He was so mad at Oikawa earlier that night, so fed up with his shit, but now all he wants is for him to come home, even if he does it bitching and moaning. After getting the silent treatment for three days, he’s become reluctant to hold grudges.

He pushes the bar door open with a loud creak that’s immediately swallowed up by the grunge music playing from the blown-out speakers. Hajime gets hit by a gust of warm, stale air and steps into it gratefully, pulling his thawing hands out of his pockets and rubbing them together. He starts scanning the room for light brown hair and lanky limbs, his gaze catching on a slumped figure at the bar. He sighs.

That’s Oikawa alright, and by the looks of it, his fake ID was more convincing than Hajime thought it would be.

He crosses the room, glaring at the bartender and loudly thinking the word “idiot” at her as she rests her elbows over the counter and nods in acknowledgement of whatever Oikawa seems to be rambling about. Hajime doesn’t know why, but something about it makes the slow, uncomfortable churning of his stomach magnify.

He takes a deep breath, putting a hand on Oikawa’s back. Oikawa lazily turns his head, eyes squinting up at Hajime in confusion.

“Hey, Oikawa,” Hajime sighs, somehow not having it in him to smile the way he planned. His thumb sweeps lightly over the ridge of Oikawa’s shoulder blade and suddenly Hajime realizes that he’s missed him terribly.

The confusion on Oikawa’s face quickly gives way to recognition and then, even quicker, to annoyance.

“Hello, Iwaizumi-kun,” he says stiffly, turning his head away and lifting his nose, eyes shut. His cheeks are glowing red. Whether from booze or from nerves, Hajime isn’t sure.

The bartender perks up with interest, her long brown ponytail slipping over her shoulder as she leans in to ask Oikawa, “Oh, is this him?” in a scandalized whisper. As if the two of them know each other well enough to have secrets. As if Hajime isn’t even there. 

He blinks, eyes darting down to Oikawa in question. Oikawa doesn’t respond, instead squirming in his seat and ducking his head, his ears pink. Hajime glances over to the empty shot glasses on the greasy counter in front of him and frowns. There’s only three, and while Oikawa has a relatively high alcohol tolerance if memory serves, it could be enough to get him tipsy at least.

“C’mon, let’s get you home,” Hajime says softly into Oikawa’s burning ear, suddenly wary of the nosy bartender still watching them with interest. He curls his hand around Oikawa’s bicep, tugging lightly.

The bartender is biting her lip and smiling like she knows something Hajime doesn’t - something about Oikawa, no less - and while he knows that she could never begin to understand Oikawa like Hajime can, he still feels fiercely defensive.

Oikawa slaps the back of his hand and Hajime has to bite back the irritated click of his tongue.

“No way!” Oikawa says petulantly. “I’m staying here to hang out with my super good friend Nami-chan.” Hajime narrows his eyes at Oikawa, then at the bartender.

She snickers. “It’s  _ Mari _ ,” she corrects good-naturedly. For some reason, Hajime is immensely pleased that Oikawa got her name wrong. “And maybe you  _ should _ go home, sweetie.” She sends Hajime a sympathetic look.

Pet names aside, Hajime decides Mari might not be so bad after all, even if she  _ did  _ fall for that phony ID. Unless she never carded Oikawa in the first place. Whatever. It’s not important right now.

Oikawa does his best impression of a kicked puppy, whimpering at Mari pitifully and reaching out a longing hand in her direction when Hajime eventually drags him off his barstool by the arm.

“How much does he owe you?” Hajime says, reaching into his pocket with one hand and placing the other on the small of Oikawa’s back. Oikawa leans into him, just a little, and Hajime warms slightly. Oikawa isn’t ignoring him. Maybe he missed Hajime, too.

Mari thinks for a moment, then shrugs. “Ah, what the hell,” she says, waving a dismissive hand and grinning. “He’s cute, it’s on the house.”

Hajime is stuck somewhere between gratitude and profound discomfort. “Uh, okay. Thanks,” he says, turning on his heel with Oikawa in tow.

Hajime pushes the bar door open and braces himself against the cold wind gusting as he steps outside. He looks over his shoulder just as Oikawa wraps his arms around his bicep, shivering against him. Affection flourishes briefly in Hajime’s chest, but then he realizes something and the smile budding on his lips withers and dies immediately.

“You didn’t bring a jacket,” he observes flatly, eyebrow twitching in annoyance. He’s not even wearing a long sleeved shirt; the sleeves stop three quarters of the way down his arms. Hajime sighs and instinctively starts rubbing his hands up and down Oikawa’s arms and back, trying to warm him up.

Oikawa pouts impressively and then presses his face into Hajime’s shoulder. He says something that Hajime can’t quite hear.

“What?” Hajime asks, wiggling his shoulder to get Oikawa to look up. It works, and when Oikawa’s face finally emerges, it’s red and pinched in what looks like a cross between flusterment and distaste.

“Stop being so,” he says, voice garbled and trembling, and Hajime has never been more interested in the end of a sentence in his life.

He waits for the knot of Oikawa’s mouth to untwist, something hot and feathery tickling the lining of his stomach. 

“Sweet,” Oikawa finishes and hides his face in Hajime’s shoulder again, making muffled noises of disgust.

Hajime blinks rapidly, as if he’s trying to fan the sudden, hot blush off his cheeks with his eyelashes. He clears his throat. 

“You didn’t think I was being sweet earlier,” Hajime recalls, only somewhat bitterly. Oikawa’s voice shouting the word ‘asshole’  earlier that day echoes dully in his mind. Still, Hajime unzips his parka, slips one of his arms out of its sleeve, and lifts it in invitation.

Oikawa seems surprised by the gesture, but accepts it anyway, ducking and curling an arm under Hajime’s jacket and around his back, the other wiggling into the sleeve Hajime slipped out of. It’s a little awkward and not comfortable, per se, but Hajime doesn’t want Oikawa walking home completely unprotected against the cold.

“You were being a jerk earlier,” Oikawa explains as they start walking down the block, sniffling. “I can take care of myself.”

Hajime can’t resist. “Sure you can, Oikawa.”

“I didn’t need you to come get me. I would have been fine on my own,” Oikawa scoffs. “It wasn’t even worth it. I’m, like,  _ barely _ tipsy.”

Hajime feels quiet relief at Oikawa’s last statement, but is too preoccupied with what he said before to comment on it. “I thought you said I was sweet.”

“Yes,” Oikawa huffs, “but I’m still not done being mad at you.” 

Hajime looks up at him. Oikawa is staring straight ahead, eyes hooded and cheeks flushed from annoyance and the cold, and he’s very, very close.

“Okay,” Hajime relents absently, unable to avert his gaze. Oikawa’s eyelashes are long, dusting the frigid air with butterfly kisses. Hajime remembers himself and finally looks away, focusing on the path in front of him. He clears his throat. “I’m sorry. If you really need me to, like, back off, that’s okay. I can… I’ll try. I just want you to come to me when you need help.” He pauses, eyebrows furrowing seriously. “I know sometimes you feel like you’re not good enough, but you are. I promise. Alright?”

Oikawa makes a loud noise somewhere between a wail and a groan. “I said I’m not done being mad at you! God!” he shouts, gritting his teeth in frustration.

“Sorry,” Hajime chuckles and knows that all is forgiven.

“And stop apologizing. It’s weird,” Oikawa commands as they climb the stairs up to their apartment, the air inside their building warm and welcoming. Oikawa worms his way out of their shared jacket, running ahead. Hajime is about to tell him to watch his step when Oikawa trips, and he would have eaten shit if it wasn’t for Hajime’s steady arms around his middle.

For a second Hajime thinks they might both tumble down the stairs, but he glances over his shoulder and takes a quick, steadying step back to accommodate Oikawa’s weight. He sighs briefly, relieved, and then looks up.

“Oh,” is all Oikawa manages, one hand fisted in the fabric covering Hajime’s shoulder, the other flat over Hajime’s heart - which, incidentally, is suddenly beating unnaturally fast.

But Hajime isn’t thinking about that. He isn’t thinking much about anything; just that the tip of Oikawa’s nose is still red from wind and winter and maybe something else, too, and that his eyes are big and close and closing. And, distantly, Hajime thinks about the fact that his own eyes are closing, too, the last thing he sees being the long curl of Oikawa’s lashes against his rosy cheeks.

A lifetime; an eternity passes in the few timeless seconds their lips touch. Colors swim behind Hajime’s eyelids; the pale seafoam that means volleyball, the smooth, endless brown that means Oikawa. It’s like everything and nothing he’s ever felt toward Oikawa all at once; things ancient and buried rising to the surface like a relief sculpture carved into his heart, things new and undiscovered making his head dizzy with Saturn rings and Venus storms. His knees almost buckle under the waves of energy passing through his floating body, the only proof that this is real - that Hajime is real - being the furtive sweeps of Oikawa’s warm mouth against his.

It’s like being reborn; it’s the start of a trip and the long journey home. It hurts like the satisfying sting of a volleyball against his palm, and just as Hajime realizes  _ this  _ is something he would rather die than give up on, it’s over.

He isn’t sure how long his eyes stay closed after Oikawa’s lips unstick from his, but when they finally flutter open, the world has all but fallen away. But Oikawa is still right there, red nose still pressed against Hajime’s cheek, eyes shining and close enough to dive into.

“I’m not actually still mad at you,” Oikawa whispers, breath hot on Hajime’s parted lips. Hajime licks them absently.

“I know,” he says softly. Conflicted, Oikawa scrunches his eyebrows together.

“And I guess sometimes...Sometimes I like it when you worry about me,” he continues, his voice trembling but his eyes focused. “And I like it a lot when you get jealous.”

The corner of Hajime’s mouth twitches up. “I know that, too,” he says.

Oikawa sniffles. “Hajime…” he chokes out quietly, voice high and strained. “I…”

“Tooru,” Hajime whispers, and, just before pushing his chin forward, “I know.”

  
  


* * *

 

 

When Oikawa’s older sister first started dating her boyfriend, Hajime was pretty thoroughly disgusted. In all fairness, though, he was ten years old at the time, which meant that the idea of romantic love was about as appealing as digging up worms from the backyard and sticking them in his mouth. And while eventually Hajime decided it was pretty funny to see his classmates dare each other to do that and other disgusting things in the name of proving they weren’t wimps, he found it difficult to regard the lovestruck looks and stolen kisses between Oikawa’s sister and her boyfriend with anything but disdain.

Whenever he went over to Oikawa’s house, he’d inevitably overhear hushed giggles and odd, wet noises coming from her room down the hall. It didn’t help that Oikawa’s parents  _ insisted _ she keep her door open whenever her boyfriend came over, because even with the loss of privacy her need to kiss him 24/7 was apparently insatiable. And loud. Very, very loud.

_ It’s like all they do is laugh and kiss _ , Hajime remembers huffing incredulously, jamming his thumb against the d-pad of his DS and watching Bowser make a sharp left turn on its screen. Oikawa was too far ahead for Hajime to see. He would probably win the race. Again.

_ Yeah _ , Oikawa laughed uncomfortably, lying on his stomach in bed.  _ It’s totally gross. Who’d wanna do that? _

Even then, Hajime knew Oikawa well enough to be able to tell that something was off or that he might have even been  _ lying _ , but the absolute last thing he wanted was to talk about lovey-dovey stuff unless it was in a strictly contemptuous way. He kept his mouth shut and focused on trying to kick Oikawa’s ass in Mario Kart, instead.

The thing is, Hajime kind of gets it now.

He hates admitting it, because he kind of hates admitting most of his feelings about Oikawa, but, well…

When you grow up with someone, when you fall in love with them, and when you live under the same roof as them, it’s kind of normal that you’d want to kiss them, right? Like, all the time?

_ Ugh. _ He kind of wants to call Oikawa’s sister and apologize for making retching noises whenever she and her boyfriend would so much as hold hands in his presence when he was little.

“Iwa-chan, you’re missing this,” Oikawa stage-whispers at him with a nudge of his shoulder. “Anakin is about to say that dumb line about sand.” He reaches out, long arm illuminated in the pale blue glow of the TV as he grabs the bowl of popcorn from the coffee table and cradles it in his lap.

“I’ve been watching the whole time,” Hajime lies, because while his eyes have technically been looking at the screen, the events actually unfolding on it don’t really interest him. He’s been zoning out for the past few minutes thinking about how, if he really,  _ really _ wanted to, he could probably kiss Oikawa right here on their couch. It doesn’t even have to be a big deal; they’ve kissed a lot since that first time on the staircase a week ago (even though Oikawa was always the one to initiate). Couples kiss all the time. And they’re a couple now, aren’t they?

The fact that he has his arm slung around Oikawa’s shoulders and one of Oikawa’s legs draped over his own would suggest  _ yes _ , but Hajime is a straightforward guy and would appreciate more than a suggestion. It’s more complicated than whether or not they love each other, after all. Can Oikawa imagine bringing Hajime home for the holidays as his boyfriend rather than his best friend? Can Hajime? There’s a whole other layer to actually  _ being _ with someone - especially another guy - that Hajime is being confronted with for the first time.

Oikawa, however, seems entirely unconcerned, mouthing along to the cringe-worthy line being said on screen and then smothering his laughter in a handful of popcorn. He chews loudly and then licks the butter and salt off his long fingers. By all accounts it should be the most disgusting thing Hajime has ever seen, but instead all he can think is,  _ I wonder if popcorn tastes different in Oikawa’s mouth than in mine _ , and,  _ If I kissed him right now, I bet I could find out. _

The thought alone makes him tingly and warm all over. He fidgets and tries to focus his attention back on the movie, wherein Anakin and Padme are currently engaged in a passionate kiss on a veranda in a sunny Venetian paradise. Terrible writing aside, it does nothing to subdue Hajime’s butterflies.

“Ugh, can you believe this?” Oikawa says, munching on more popcorn. “This is probably the least convincing romance I’ve ever had to sit through.”

That actually amuses Hajime somewhat. “You were the one who wanted to watch this,” he points out, stealing a few pieces of popcorn from the bowl in Oikawa’s lap.

Oikawa bumps his shoulder against Hajime’s. “Because it’s  _ funny _ , Iwa-chan. Watching terrible movies is fun.”

“Oh, yeah. Totally,” Hajime deadpans between bites.

Oikawa giggles a little, snuggling closer. Hajime does his best not to tense up, his heart beating fast. 

When they were little, they used to curl up on the couch or in each other’s beds together all the time. They’d hug goodbye every day after school and they’d hold hands when they crossed the street. During a game of truth or dare in 8th grade, Hajime had to kiss Oikawa on the cheek.

But now they’re adults and they’re in love and that has tilted the axis of physical affection somewhat.

“You’re just stiff and humorless,” Oikawa decides, but tilts his head up to kiss the corner of Hajime’s jaw to pacify him. It works and Hajime hates it and he wants Oikawa to do it again.

He decides to argue, anyway. “That’s not true,” he says, “I laughed pretty hard when you fell asleep first at that party at Mattsun’s and he and Makki drew dicks on your face.”

Oikawa wrinkles his nose. “That was crass, first of all, and second, I still managed to look amazing,” he announces.

Hajime snickers. “Yeah, you really rock the sharpie-dick look,” he jokes. “You should get a face tattoo.”

Oikawa laughs right in Hajime’s ear, loud and lovely. “Noooo,” he half-giggles, half-whines, “I don’t want a tattoo unless it’s a matching one with you, Iwa-chan.”

It’s just like Oikawa to say something unintentionally earth-shattering during a conversation about phallic symbols. The thought of Oikawa feeling committed enough to Hajime to get a tattoo for him makes a sweet ache pulse through Hajime’s chest and blissful nausea swirl in his gut.

Somehow, Hajime manages to angle his head and press a kiss to Oikawa’s temple, shocked at how natural it feels. “I’m not getting a face tattoo. Dick-related or otherwise,” he mutters against his skin. After a brief moment, he kisses him there again.

Oikawa hums thoughtfully. “I still think I’d look good with a face tattoo.” He leans forward and sets down the now near empty bowl of popcorn on the coffee table. “Not a lot of people can pull them off,” he continues, settling back in on the couch and wrapping his arms around Hajime’s neck, “but I think I could.”

Hajime, underneath all the sirens blaring in his head and the heat buzzing under his skin, is skeptical. It must show on his face, because as Oikawa throws one leg across Hajime’s lap to straddle him, he pouts and says, “Tell me I’d look good with a face tattoo.”

“Why is this so important to you?” Hajime wonders, hands tentatively resting on Oikawa’s hips - something that, after all these years of knowing and being near Oikawa, he has never done before. But now he can. He swallows thickly. 

He feels Oikawa’s fingers playing with the hair on the back of his neck. “I just want to hear you say I look good,” Oikawa concedes, smiling coyly, and, okay. That’s completely unfair. 

“You look good,” Hajime says simply. Even though Oikawa coerced him into saying it, it comes out surprisingly easily. Maybe because it’s so obvious.

Oikawa grins, biting his bottom lip. “Just ‘good’?” he urges quietly, his face close. So close. 

Still, Hajime isn’t about to let this opportunity slide. “Oh, yeah, you look  _ amazing _ ,” he gushes, “ _ So _ hot. Especially when you’ve got popcorn between your teeth.”

Oikawa jerks back, startled and covering his mouth self-consciously. Hajime feels a little sorry for him, so he admits, “I was just kidding, you don’t have anything in your teeth,” but not without a shit-eating grin on his face.

Oikawa removes his hand immediately, revealing the betrayed but still amused look on his face. He jabs Hajime in the stomach in revenge, laughing, “You are such a  _ jerk _ ! Absolutely  _ the  _ worst boyfriend on the face of the Earth!”

Of all the heart-arrhythmia inducing things Oikawa has said and done in the last hour alone, this is his worst offense. Not because he’s calling Hajime a jerk, but because he’s calling him his - 

“Boyfriend?” Hajime blurts, feeling suddenly feverish.

Oikawa stops rattling off insults, looking at Hajime blankly. “Well, yeah,” he says, shrugging casually, though Hajime can see a blush creeping onto his cheeks, as well.

“Oh,” Hajime says, clearing his throat. “Well, that’s the first time you’ve said it out loud, so I wasn’t sure if you wanted to, like…”

Oikawa regards him somewhat cautiously. “Do  _ you  _ want to?” he probes innocently, though Hajime guesses he’s just as nervous about this. Maybe he’s been worrying about it, too; about making this official. 

Oikawa’s attempt at a casual facade fades, his shoulders slumping. He sighs dejectedly. “I know it - it won’t, like, be easy,” he says quickly, wringing his hands, “With my new team and our old team and parents and neighbors and - and if we ever decided we wanted to, like, get  _ married  _ \- “

“Whoa,” Hajime says, laying his hand over Oikawa’s, and suddenly everything is so simple. After hearing his worries being said out loud, they seem totally insignificant. Hajime realizes with abrupt clarity that he doesn’t actually give a shit about what anyone else thinks. He wants to be with Oikawa, always, and nothing else inside him can possibly match that feeling.

“We don’t have to worry about any of that right now,” he says, voice soft. “Just slow down, okay? I want this. No matter what.”

He raises a hand up to Oikawa’s face, cupping his cheek. The worry etched into Oikawa’s face melts into relief. He smiles down at Hajime warmly, leaning into his palm.  _ That’s better. _ Hajime smiles back. 

“You  _ know _ ,” Oikawa starts, in his know-it-all voice, “there wouldn’t have been any confusion if you had just let me finish what I was saying after we kissed the first time.”

Oikawa’s obnoxious tone aside, Hajime feels a rush of delight at the words ‘the first time’ - an acknowledgement that they have kissed more than once and the implication that they’ll keep kissing in the future. 

“Instead you had to go all Han Solo on me,” Oikawa huffs. “There I am, in the middle of a heartfelt love confession, and you - “ he pauses, lifting his head out of Hajime’s hand and staring down at him stoically, “‘ _ I know _ .’”

Hajime pinches his cheek, unable to stop the grin spreading his lips. “I knew how you felt, I just wasn’t sure about labels yet. And that is  _ not  _ what I sound like,” he says feebly, embarrassed and happy and stupidly in love.

“‘ _ That is not what I sound like _ ,’” Oikawa parrots in another poor imitation of Hajime’s voice. Hajime laughs and pinches his cheek harder.

“You’re a brat,” he says affectionately. 

Oikawa sighs dramatically. “So mean to your boyfriend,” he chides, shaking his head.

“I’m breaking up with you,” Hajime threatens and doesn’t take it back until Oikawa has wrestled him onto his back, pinning him to the couch.

He laughs harder than he has in a long time, the same way he used to after somersaulting through the grass with Oikawa when they were kids, except this time Oikawa places his hands flat on Hajime’s chest, bends down, and kisses him like Hajime always wished he would.

He chases the soft press of Oikawa’s lips, head lifting up off the couch cushions. He curls his hand around the corner of Oikawa’s jaw, angling his head as Oikawa slides his tongue along the seam of Hajime’s lips and sighing dreamily. If Hajime had the capacity for coherent thought right now, he’d be annoyed at how good at this Oikawa is. Hajime, meanwhile, gets so hot and dizzy that he’s not even certain he’s kissing back anymore.

Oikawa pulls away after a few moments, wiping his slick, grinning mouth with the back of his hand. Hajime watches him in a daze, shivering as Oikawa runs his hands up the sides of Hajime’s blushing face and sinks them into his hair. 

“Say I look amazing,” Oikawa whispers sweetly, fingers rubbing Hajime’s scalp, “Like you mean it, this time.”

Hajime must be just as lovestruck as Oikawa’s older sister was back then for him to give in to that kind of request. Oh, well. 

“You’re beautiful, actually,” he mumbles, reaching up and running his knuckles along the plane of Oikawa’s cheek. His eyes are a warm, shimmering brown and wreathed with long, soft eyelashes. The curve of his jaw is smooth but strong. Secretly, Hajime has always thought Oikawa has an adorable nose, and now, for obvious reasons, he also has a newfound appreciation for Oikawa’s lips. There is a reason, after all, that he was so popular with the girls at their high school, and it wasn’t because of his obsession with sci-fi or volleyball. To Hajime, though, those just add to his charm. “Really.”

Oikawa brightens, giggling quietly, always weak to praise and yet always craving it. “Tell me you love me, even when I make you sit through terrible movies,” he urges, beaming and nudging his nose against Hajime’s.

Hajime sinks his fingers into Oikawa’s soft brown hair, brushing through it gently. There are no tangles. Of course there aren’t; Hajime doesn’t know why he’s surprised. It’s Oikawa.

Hajime takes a deep breath through his nose. “I love you. I always have,” he confesses, not caring about emotional vulnerability or embarrassment, because Oikawa deserves to hear it; every word. “And I’ll never stop.” He pauses, lowering his hand and catching the stray tear at the corner of Oikawa’s glimmering eye with his thumb. He smiles. “And you were right, shitty movies are fun.”

Oikawa sniffles, his eyes crinkling and watery. “I love you, too, Iwa-chan,” he croaks, cupping the sides of Hajime’s face and giving him another Inuit kiss. 

“Don’t cry,” Hajime warns, already feeling his own throat close up.

“I’m not crying,” Oikawa lies, clearly crying - which is a lot to take in. Oikawa is so happy that he’s  _ crying _ . Something warm flutters around in Hajime’s chest. 

“If I tell you you look really ugly when you cry, will you stop?” Hajime tries, rubbing his hand up and down Oikawa’s bowed back. Oikawa  _ is  _ a really ugly crier, but that’s not actually why Hajime wants him to stop. Whether Oikawa’s tears are of joy or sadness, they’re always embarrassingly contagious.

“Rude!” Oikawa whines, digging his knuckle into Hajime’s cheek. “You’re just a big softie who can’t stand to see the guy you love cry.”

_ Busted _ . “I’m just a human with eyes who can’t stand seeing  _ you  _ cry.”

Oikawa tries his best to look offended, but a watery smile curls his lips anyway. He opens his palm, the backs of his fingers softening against Hajime’s cheek. Hajime closes his eyes, leaning into Oikawa’s touch. “Yeah, because you love me.”

Hajime chuckles. “Yeah,” he relents, heart warm. “Because I love you.”

Oikawa lays his forehead against Hajime’s, closing his eyes and sighing, pleased. “Hajime,” he whispers, reaching for Hajime’s hand and lacing their fingers tight, “Kiss me?”

  
He does, and then he does it again, and again, and again. And while kissing Oikawa is a lot of things (new; familiar;  _ everything _ ) above all, it feels right.

**Author's Note:**

> honorable mention song for this fic: "shooting the moon" by ok go
> 
> well well well well well well well. i bet you weren't expecting haikyuu!! fic from me, were you? what can i say, iwaoi still owns my ass and likely always will. i'm a sucker for the "childhood friends to lovers" trope. sue me.
> 
> anyway this fic....whew this fic was. A lot. i started writing back in october i think and i rewrote it approximately 50 million times since then before i was finally satisfied with it. it's helped me make it through my first semester of university. i feel like i've been both oikawa and iwa-chan at different points and just needed a way to like. work things out. i hope you all get something out of it, too.
> 
> thank you for reading!
> 
>  
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> 
> [main blog](http://eijier.tumblr.com//)   
>  [art blog](http://luftballons99.tumblr.com/)   
>  [twitter](https://twitter.com/waldmotel)
> 
>  
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>  
> 
> (P.S. i'm working on the next chapter of knuckle tape, i Promise. it's coming.)


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